Saturday, January 31, 2009

No Season For Passion

Wither in the winter
A snail can't mate in this weather
And beauty lapses to disease
Even unseen
He senses the condition
Such an ackward position
The freak-o-nature-glance
Why can't he give a girl a chance?

Head so heavy
Burden-o-things,
Spring,
So many
Hear the symptoms of love
And strap on a thick glove
'Cause something so pretty
Somthing somebody's had
Can't be too rokcy
Can't be that bad.

Hot like a ember
Straight out of slumber
Twisting and tumbling
Fingers all fumbling
Unaware
O-the-danger there
Wrapped-up all neat
Within a soiled summer sheet.

Oh, snakey skin shawl
Unsheath this child-o-fall
Let her bathe in crisp air
Unscathed, raw, and bare
And dance in the glory
Finding vereve in the most holy
Date-o-the-doomed
Harvest-sister's spoon.

No comments:

Post a Comment